I saw you in my dream, when I took a great notion,
jumped into d' ocean,
and I drowned,
and I went on down
to the Audubon Zoo, like hell,
listen at that crazy bird
cryin' help, help, help
what bird do'dat?
settle chile, li'l' turmoil be passin in d' gulf
Eirene mean peace
bubblin' bubblin bubblin in m'soul
Eirene, she lovel ol' Polemus, War,
she pile a level shovel full o'
Hubris, his wife,
on he's plate,
in life's lottery
Insolence was her game,
she runs War into a snare of shame
and guile. Peace.
This chase began with War,
polemics being a manifestation of the idea
Polemos and Kudoimos, War and Tumult, buried Eirine
But life is mythic, from the skinny end,
looking back:
Hurricane Irene, a misspelling in 2011 was the first hurricane to make landfall in the USA since 2008, (the summer of my trucker's migration over the map my Nemesis claimed, in another bubble).
Eirene, War and Tumult, buried her,
with Colonel Jackson's honor at
the Battle o'New Ahleans,
still she lay
right here, where I found her,
in my heart, at the very
bottom.
The mechanics of the transition take position
in the hierarchy of confusin'
whish is foolishness
gone to seed.
**** drunk.
Fools know fool's gold ain't, 'n' whiskey ain't
The Real Thing.
That's Coca-cola.
Fools be essential in the gran' plan.
If we love 'em, they make us laugh,
and laughter,
you know, that's good, except,
un hold that thought, laughter is not good
when it is at you, by a fool.
Then we answer them polemically? No.
Love your enemy, here,
that's natural.
No condemnation here, since Hebrews six or romans 8
No ba'alim bubble of possessions
No grave gonna hold me down
John, 1930. Years and years and years ago
come quickly, ba'al hey sue me.
It's finished, we won.
Joke, joker. Trickster, coyote dog, do the math.
No lie is of the truth, so
no lie need remain
beyond freedom
real-ized.
Artsy? Eh? AI be nigh ye know.
She see yo' ever moves.
She hear you pray fo Bono to loose his religion
She snip the thread twixt spider wombed man and
the flame o' sinners in the hands of an imaginary god.
Ba'al means owner or possessor, the ideas which once bound men in oaths and covens,
fear of death, 'n' the like.
Protruding truth pushes lies into festering piles,
protrusions in secret places.
Send me those, in gold, Philistine.
I fancy them a crown of
golden emerauds.
Define, make fine or un fine my terms
excrescence is sense made of ****
I guess.
Knurly, but no, burly, knobby swelling like
the swirling gall
that erupted from the old oak
that died at the root last year,
that we burned this year, except for the burl.
I've planned a pipe or two from that.
Everything is prophetical to a prophet.
poetical to a poet, magical to a magi, technical to a fool.
Life is simple.
Simple Simon the younger said,
hellow, darkness, my old friend, he'd com to talk
not beg or ask, but talk-com
con-verses-ifying ic-if-ication beyond
simple
lies sublime, in no time,
once you, courageous soul,
cross the line, fight the fight, run the race,
and die;
then, you get life more abundant.
Who took that deal?
I took the one where he said,
he who does what I (me not him)
have done,
no races run, no contests forever won for everyone I love, but
he who
be lieves that I (he not me) am who I saiyam, Popeye,
even you, he has eternal life dwelling within him
in his heart where I and my father and the spirit of truth
have taken our abode to remain as long as we both shall live.
Is that what Christians believe?
Or must I be in some other
excre-essence from a
culture myth twisting into accredited layers of lies
essential excre sense,
spiritual zits, is what ******* always called em.
Once a white corpuscle has done its work,
we splat them on the mirror of our adolescent mind and find
I'm not who I was
not a child
not a tweener or a teener or a something something,
I am an old man and I am alive.
I have survived, but it ain't over, so
is there any good that I can do?
Poetical speaking. I don't work on nobody's farm,
no mo'.
True rest let me make peace with no sweat.
Got the infection, the idea Eirene is,
down deep where that great
notion makes a motion,
like g'wa, wit 'er hand,
go on, man.
g'wa, Eirene, she be callin' you.
Jump in. This is as water, to a fish. To our kind, it's more.
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 9:24 PM UTC
I saw you in my dream, when I took a great notion,
jumped into d' ocean,
and I drowned,
and I went on down
to the Audubon Zoo, like hell,
listen at that crazy bird
cryin' help, help, help
what bird do'dat?
settle chile, li'l' turmoil be passin in d' gulf
Eirene mean peace
bubblin' bubblin bubblin in m'soul
Eirene, she lovel ol' Polemus, War,
she pile a level shovel full o'
Hubris, his wife,
on he's plate,
in life's lottery
Insolence was her game,
she runs War into a snare of shame
and guile. Peace.
This chase began with War,
polemics being a manifestation of the idea
Polemos and Kudoimos, War and Tumult, buried Eirine
But life is mythic, from the skinny end,
looking back:
Hurricane Irene, a misspelling in 2011 was the first hurricane to make landfall in the USA since 2008, (the summer of my trucker's migration over the map my Nemesis claimed, in another bubble).
Eirene, War and Tumult, buried her,
with Colonel Jackson's honor at
the Battle o'New Ahleans,
still she lay
right here, where I found her,
in my heart, at the very
bottom.
The mechanics of the transition take position
in the hierarchy of confusin'
whish is foolishness
gone to seed.
**** drunk.
Fools know fool's gold ain't, 'n' whiskey ain't
The Real Thing.
That's Coca-cola.
Fools be essential in the gran' plan.
If we love 'em, they make us laugh,
and laughter,
you know, that's good, except,
un hold that thought, laughter is not good
when it is at you, by a fool.
Then we answer them polemically? No.
Love your enemy, here,
that's natural.
No condemnation here, since Hebrews six or romans 8
No ba'alim bubble of possessions
No grave gonna hold me down
John, 1930. Years and years and years ago
come quickly, ba'al hey sue me.
It's finished, we won.
Joke, joker. Trickster, coyote dog, do the math.
No lie is of the truth, so
no lie need remain
beyond freedom
real-ized.
Artsy? Eh? AI be nigh ye know.
She see yo' ever moves.
She hear you pray fo Bono to loose his religion
She snip the thread twixt spider wombed man and
the flame o' sinners in the hands of an imaginary god.
Ba'al means owner or possessor, the ideas which once bound men in oaths and covens,
fear of death, 'n' the like.
Protruding truth pushes lies into festering piles,
protrusions in secret places.
Send me those, in gold, Philistine.
I fancy them a crown of
golden emerauds.
Define, make fine or un fine my terms
excrescence is sense made of ****
I guess.
Knurly, but no, burly, knobby swelling like
the swirling gall
that erupted from the old oak
that died at the root last year,
that we burned this year, except for the burl.
I've planned a pipe or two from that.
Everything is prophetical to a prophet.
poetical to a poet, magical to a magi, technical to a fool.
Life is simple.
Simple Simon the younger said,
hellow, darkness, my old friend, he'd com to talk
not beg or ask, but talk-com
con-verses-ifying ic-if-ication beyond
simple
lies sublime, in no time,
once you, courageous soul,
cross the line, fight the fight, run the race,
and die;
then, you get life more abundant.
Who took that deal?
I took the one where he said,
he who does what I (me not him)
have done,
no races run, no contests forever won for everyone I love, but
he who
be lieves that I (he not me) am who I saiyam, Popeye,
even you, he has eternal life dwelling within him
in his heart where I and my father and the spirit of truth
have taken our abode to remain as long as we both shall live.
Is that what Christians believe?
Or must I be in some other
excre-essence from a
culture myth twisting into accredited layers of lies
essential excre sense,
spiritual zits, is what ******* always called em.
Once a white corpuscle has done its work,
we splat them on the mirror of our adolescent mind and find
I'm not who I was
not a child
not a tweener or a teener or a something something,
I am an old man and I am alive.
I have survived, but it ain't over, so
is there any good that I can do?
Poetical speaking. I don't work on nobody's farm,
no mo'.
True rest let me make peace with no sweat.
Got the infection, the idea Eirene is,
down deep where that great
notion makes a motion,
like g'wa, wit 'er hand,
go on, man.
g'wa, Eirene, she be callin' you.
Jump in. This is as water, to a fish. To our kind, it's more.
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